Knivespeak
by lazaefair
Summary: Knives reflects. Set postseries. Oneshot.


He thinks I'll change, that brother of mine.

It is true insofar that since I went into a coma, I have not shown much inclination to continue my declared quest to cause him eternal pain.

Well. The death of Legato will always weigh on Vash's spirit whether he lives another century, perhaps even two, or not. That damned woman's words are ingrained into him too deeply for it to be otherwise. I am forced to be content with that. More to the point, I am incapable of anything further. Disturbingly, I do not know when I will recover from the sleep that grips my physical shell, though my mind is awake. I am unable to act, and I always knew in my heart that my mere words never held sway over Vash as much as _that woman's_ did.

Rem Saverem. We grew up too fast, my brother and I, and the effects of that rapid development on our minds were unforeseen by even ourselves, much less the humans who could never hope to understand the workings of a Plant's mind. One result is that our early educations, in the two years after we were born (perhaps spawned is the more accurate term), latched onto something deep and nearly unconscious inside us, thus irreversibly shaping us into what we are today. Whatever chord Rem struck in Vash will stay struck to the end of his life, as will the chord Steve struck in me.

I have allowed very few individuals to have any kind of influence on my life. My brother, obviously. Rem, for the infernal influence she had on Vash—causing her death was perhaps the most satisfactory thing I have done, though the act was one of the deciding factors that eventually drove Vash away from me.

I do not regret my decisions in the last 130 years. Were I to give in to the massive reservoir of guilt that I probably deserve, I have no doubt I would retreat into the true depths of madness Vash has sometimes accused me of sinking into. I have no wish to go to such an end. Neither do I admit that my conclusions about mankind, and my subsequent course of action, were incorrect.

I nevertheless find myself playing the game of 'what if' that humans are so fond of, and which I have disdained—until, it appears, recently. If things had gone differently on the SEEDS ship. If events had shaped themselves such that I had not developed a philosophy so radically and disastrously different from Vash's. If Steve, that barely evolved ape, that man who sought refuge in drink when his limited mental facilities failed to adapt to our superior presence, that prejudiced, moronic, xenophobic specimen barely worthy of my disgust—

No.

I will not think of him now.

My brother has returned now to the house - I can hear his footsteps creaking on the outside porch. He willingly shares this house with the two humans - females, no less - he has managed to get attached to. I simply do not understand. They do not even exhibit any extraordinary capabilities that were a requirement for entry into my Gun-Ho Guns. The tall one does appear to have strength above the norm for females of her age, and Legato, while fulfilling his periodic task to apprise me of events in the outside world, once brought me a story mentioning the short one's skill with derringers. Yet neither even remotely approaches the lowliest Gung-Ho Gun.

The short one reminds me disturbingly of _that woman_. Fortunately, she hates me as well, though my hate is greater and was refined in far bitterer furnaces for far longer, and she stays well away from my room. Indeed, were I not still frozen in sleep and the illness my idiot traitorous brother inflicted on me, they would have died at my hands long ago. I would have savored it - I have killed and ordered the deaths of many, but the death agonies of these would have been sweet to savor, after enduring _months-_-

* * *

"You know, that's petty even for you," Vash said, leaning in the doorway.

Knives unclenched his fists and turned away from the window where he realized he'd been staring down at the tall one, as she unsaddled the thomases in the yard and cooed at them like the simple-minded infant she was. Pathetic-

"They kept you alive for six months, Knives," Vash nodded towards the open window. "Millie held you when you were delirious."

...strong, sure hands, smoothing sweat-soaked hair away from his forehead. An tender presence, underlaid with steel, he'd instinctively sunk into when ghosts screamed in his ear.

Fuck.

Knives glared at Vash, hoping to peel away the faintly superior grin with force of mind. But even that had been stripped from him. The best he could do was try to clamp down on the intrusive mental presence, preventing the bastard from reading his thoughts further. Vash didn't even flinch, where Knives could have once had him down on the floor begging for the pain to end.

He had the strength of a newborn thomas. He had no voice, vanished somewhere during the coma. His Plant abilities gone with his voice.

Why am I still alive?

"Rem called it mercy," Vash said, but there was no mercy in his eyes or voice. Even Vash had a limit, it seemed.

By the time Knives lurched off the bed and across the tiny room, Vash was gone. He pounded uselessly on the wooden door. He sank to the floor, gasping with even that miniscule exertion. He could hear more footsteps, more voices, greetings and the thunk of travel gear being dropped to the floor.

He pictured spider blood spilled across dusty wooden planks. He heard the tall one's vibrant voice and Vash's answering murmur, and stared at his clenched hands, saw mangled throats and limp bodies sprawled on the floor in grotesque parodies of sleep - but Knives' will no longer had any force.

He thought I'd change, that brother of mine.


End file.
